Purgatory
by Jennifer N
Summary: It was different with Sydney. It was always different with Sydney." Jack remembers. COMPLETE
1. One

**Title:** Purgatory

**Author:** Jennifer N (jennifer_n97@hotmail.com)

**Summary:**  "It was different with Sydney.  It was always different with Sydney."  Jack remembers.  post-Telling, during the missing two years

**Categories:** Angst/Drama

**Spoilers:** through 2.22, "The Telling."  There are no Season 3 spoilers in this fic.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Distribution:** CM, SD-1, ff.net

**Disclaimer:**  These characters aren't mine, obviously.  Some dialogue is borrowed from episodes 1.01, "Truth Be Told," and 1.17, "Q and A."  Also not mine.

**A/N:** Like many other writers in this fandom, I never planned on writing a post-Telling fic.  I didn't even have any ideas until July, when this plot bunny came out of nowhere and attacked me.  Apparently Jack didn't think he was getting enough attention in "Interrogations."

Huge thanks go out to Becky, Steph, and Sheri for looking at this along the way.

**Purgatory**

She wasn't supposed to be born.

When you first learned of Laura's true identity, that was the first thought that entered your mind.  A swallow agent, even one on such a long-term op as Laura, would not be expected to endure a pregnancy and a child of all things.  The KGB would find it appalling for one of their own to leave a legacy with an _American_.

Suddenly the memory of a car accident at twenty-seven weeks made perfect sense.  Although you could never prove it, it must have been staged.

The KGB just didn't expect Laura to fight so valiantly to save her.

*********

She was never supposed to leave the hospital alive.

Her chart indicated she was a robust seven pounds, four ounces in the delivery room and that her vitals were strong.

A second notation indicated she was taken from the nursery for an undetermined period of time.  _"Her father accompanied the nurse and the baby back into the mother's room, where Baby Bristow remained for the rest of the afternoon."_

The KGB didn't expect you to fight so valiantly either.

*********

You didn't mean to name her Sydney.

The two of you had pored over name books for months, practically since her conception.  In fact, Laura's way of telling you that she was pregnant was by giving you a _1,001__ Names for Baby in a bright red gift bag.  Not that you needed to be told.  You knew her menstrual cycle better than she did, and you noticed the imperceptible changes in her body sooner than a physician would._

But you waited for her to surprise you over dinner one night three weeks later, observed her flushed cheeks as she withdrew the gift bag from her "hiding place" under the bed where she always hid her Christmas presents to you every year.  You spent the rest of the night, and many more nights that cold winter, debating the merits of Abigail and Bridget and Colleen and Dawn.

Never Sydney.

By the time April drew near, you had a short list of names ready for the big day.  Laura refused to narrow the list down to just one, maintaining that you had to look at your daughter—she never did believe she was carrying a boy—and then decide on a name.

After two days of debating, discussing, and arguing, the nurses were ready to name her for you.  And then someone—Arvin, you realize as the bile rises in your throat—suggested Sydney, and suddenly, it was as if a light bulb went off.

Sydney.

*********

You never thought you'd be someone's hero.

You joined the CIA at an early age.  While you could never fully disclose your occupation, you always noticed the disdain on people's faces when you vaguely told them that you worked for the government.  Your colleagues and superiors grudgingly gave their respect—but only after you earned it, after you proved to them that you belonged there, that you were worthy of their time, that you were intelligent enough to stand in their circles.

It was different with Sydney.

It was always different with Sydney.

Sydney looked up at you with wide-eyed adoration, even as a baby.  Her mouth quickly formed the syllable "Da," and she repeated it with all of her might for hours on end.  When she was old enough, she would stand in her crib and hold the railing as she chanted "Da da da da da da da da."  Every time Laura would stand in front of her and prod, "Say ma-ma," she would respond with a gleeful "Da!"

By the time she was toddling around everyone knew she had you wrapped around her little finger.  

You were her father, and you could do no wrong.  You could climb the highest mountain, move heaven and earth, do whatever it took in her eyes.

You've been trying to move heaven and earth now for almost two years.

*********

She wasn't supposed to grow up alone.

Both you and Laura—Irina, you correct yourself; even if she was Laura at the time, she was always Irina—wanted at least two children, maybe more.

Or perhaps only you wanted two children.  You make a mental note to ask Irina later, fill in one more piece of the "Laura versus Irina" puzzle you have constructed over the years.

Regardless, it never happened.  You were away on assignment at the wrong time of the month; Sydney was sick and kept both of you up all night and left you exhausted; Laura—Irina—had already made plans to attend an out-of-town conference.  Something always came up to interrupt your baby-making plans.

And then came the day that destroyed them.

You can still see Sydney sleeping peacefully in her bed that night, the covers kicked off, her teddy bear on the floor, her left pajama pant leg bunched up around her knee.  You watched as the moonlight cast a glow on her face and wondered if your wife was now watching over her from above.  Eventually, you quietly closed the door behind you and tried to go to your own bedroom to sleep for a few precious hours—but you couldn't.  Walking into that bedroom, where you and Laura had shared so much, left you unable to breathe.  Gasping, choking back sobs that you never did let out, you returned to your daughter's side, the one living, breathing thing holding a slight tether to reality for you, and sat down in a small, child-size chair, content to watch her sleep peacefully for the remainder of the night.

You knew it was probably the last peaceful sleep she would have for awhile.

When she woke the next morning, you were still sitting there in that chair, although looking back now you are surprised it held your weight for so long.  Her eyes widened and she rushed out of bed to you.

_"Daddy!__  Are we going to play tea party?"_

You shook your head and scooped her up in your arms.  It was somehow easier to hold her to your chest rather than look at her face.  It looked too much like someone else for you to bear.

You quietly, carefully told her how her mommy was an angel now.  You held her as she sobbed, wailing at the sky that she needed her mommy more than God did.  You let her cling to you in the following days—as you woodenly shook hands with university professors; as you spoke with investigators, who were puzzled when they couldn't locate a body; as you watched an empty coffin be lowered into the ground.

You choke back a sob now as you see a second empty coffin, eerily similar to the first, laid in front of a headstone next to the one marked _Laura Bristow, Loving Wife and Mother_.

You wonder if it is possible for a second Bristow woman to come back from the dead.

_tbc_


	2. Two

You never thought you and Sydney would grow so far apart.

In your first six years together, you shared such a close father-daughter bond that it scared you.  What if you did have a second child?  Would he or she be able to compete with the connection you and Sydney already had?  And what about your wife?  Were you stifling her bond with your daughter?

One cold night in November erased those questions from your mind and left you with an array of new ones.  _What am I going to do when I'm out of town on assignment?  How will I explain the birds and the bees someday?  Who's going to distract __Sydney_ while I pull her loose tooth?  How on earth do I braid pigtails?_  The list was endless._

The list was one of the few things that kept you going while you were incarcerated for six months.  For the list was a direct tie back to Sydney, your precious daughter, your reason for sanity.  Over time you felt you had a game plan that answered most, if not all, of your questions.  A nanny could stay with her when you were out of town.  The birds and the bees could be sternly explained in a single lecture; you would have to focus and make sure you did not blush as you had this talk with your little girl someday.  Perhaps television could suitably distract her while you tried to pull out another loose tooth; if that failed, you were willing to consider bribery.

Braiding pigtails still befuddled you though.

When you were finally released, you rushed back to your daughter, who instantly vaulted herself into your arms.  She tearfully clung to you, refusing once again to leave your side.  She demanded that you be with her at all times.  She made you keep talking to her when you were in the bathroom with the door closed; she sat on the toilet while you were in the shower; she fell asleep propped up against you every night.

As the first year drew to a close, things began to change.

The CIA reluctantly began to send you out on missions again.  Knowing you had something to prove, you focused so much time and effort into your job that it put the zeal of your younger days to shame.  You would never again give the Agency a reason to mock you.  Since you couldn't track down this Irina Derevko who had betrayed you, you vowed to bring down the organization she had worked for.  And in the coming years, it seemed as if perhaps it was a possibility.  Your standing with the CIA had never been better, the six month incarceration becoming only a dim memory in the eyes of most agents.

But for the Agency's newfound respect, there was a price.  A dear one.

Sydney.

*********

She wasn't supposed to be a field agent.

You had trained her as a child, you admitted, but only as a means of protecting her.  Your plan, which you later confessed to her—you wish you could go back and change that moment, wipe away the pained expression on her face that day—was to recruit her after college into the CIA, the _real_ CIA.

As she progressed through high school and college, you watched her from afar, observed not only her schoolwork but her friends, who she interacted with, why she chose the friends that she did.  You were struck with the realization that she was becoming more and more like you by the day.  She might look like the image of her mother, who, preserved in death, would forever be young.  But on the inside, she was mostly you.  Closed off, detached even from close friends, analytical.  She was never the strategist that you are, but she was always better than you with languages.  Who else would take classes in five different languages before she was twenty-one?

You winced as the image of another dark-haired woman came to mind.  Perhaps, you conceded as you recalled the impulsiveness they shared, she had grown to be like her mother too.

Sydney's high IQ, coupled with her strong analytical and linguistic skills, made her the perfect candidate for a career in intelligence.  Your plan, the one you had crafted since her childhood, was that an agent would approach her during the spring of her junior year of college.  The agent would discuss with her the possibilities of being a desk agent—perhaps translating intel as it came in from various parts of the world, or maybe planning missions for field agents.

One thing you were certain of—you did not want her to be a field agent.  While the agent in you argued that she could be brilliant, the father in you staunchly refused to see that as a possibility.

You closely held your dreams for your only daughter, waiting for the leaves to turn green again in that appointed year, when a meeting with SD-6 proved to be your downfall.  Someone else, someone you once called a friend, had beaten you to the punch.  And not only was she unknowingly working for the enemy, she wasn't a desk agent.

She was out in the field.

You hadn't been this devastated since you learned the truth about Laura.

You didn't know you'd feel this way again a few years later.

*********

You were never supposed to tell her the truth about SD-6.

For years you wanted to, although you knew it was for the best that she did not know the truth.  If she did, she might do something rash like confront Sloane.  Or become a double agent.

Either choice was suicide.

So you watched and waited as she graduated from college, then began her masters program.  As she continued to follow the path her mother supposedly had taken, you were further convinced that ignorance would be bliss.  You instinctively knew that if she learned your true identity, the truth about her mother would not be long in coming.

Neither one of you needed to deal with that.

Instead you continued your role as an aloof, standoffish father, the kind of father her best friend Francie hated.  Life was surreally normal until one summer day when you received a phone call at your office.

_"Hi.  It's Danny Hecht.  __Sydney_'s boyfriend."__

Your stomach dropped to the floor.  There were only two reasons her longtime boyfriend would be calling you.

_"Is __Sydney__ all right?"_

_"Oh, yes, she's fine.  Nothing to worry about."_

While this should have relieved you, it didn't.  Because if he wasn't calling to discuss her well-being, it meant . . .

_"I'm calling because I'm planning on asking __Sydney_ to marry me and . . . I was hoping to get your approval."__

That.

As you reprimanded the future Dr. Hecht, reminding him that this was, in fact, a courtesy call, you wondered what Sydney's answer would be.  Obviously, if they had been dating for two years, he was fairy confident that she would say yes.  But he did not know what you knew, that her bank job was much more than a way to pay the bills.  You could only hope that Sydney would not take the high road and clue him in.

_"Good.  Then welcome to the family."_

You should have known your well-meaning daughter would be unable to keep a secret of this magnitude from her fiancé.

You sat in Arvin's office a few short days later and quietly read the file given to you.  It killed you to hear Arvin—it's hard to believe he was once your best friend—offer his apologies for what he was ordering.  It killed you more to dismiss his hollow words and remind him that you were loyal to him, to the Alliance, and not your own flesh and blood.

You left Credit Dauphine that day as quickly as possible.  You already knew that Sydney was in Taipei on a mission for SD-6.  Your first priority had to be Danny.  Sydney was safe until she completed her mission; Dixon would not let anything happen to her, would not hand her over to Security Section.  For now, you had to find Danny.

You raced through Los Angeles, talking a mile a minute on your CIA-issue cell phone, calling in favors people had forgotten they owed you.  At last you had a ticket booked from LAX to Singapore, a separate ticket for Sydney, and new papers for both of them—birth certificates, passports, a marriage license.  After today they would be Josh and Hannah Parker, a medical technician and a librarian.  You were confident in Sydney's ability to conform to play a part; you could only hope that her new husband would learn quickly.

Agents had already been sent to scour the hospital; when they reported that he was not there, you did a u-turn and sped away to his apartment complex.  Even as you saw the trees and buildings fly past you, you found a moment to ironically note that this was the way you were seeing your future son-in-law's home for the first time.  You barely remembered to put the car in park before you jumped out of it, walking as fast as you dared, not wanting to make the elderly woman on her balcony look at you suspiciously.

The lock on his door was ridiculously easy to pick.  You held onto a shred of hope, noticing that the door did not appear to be damaged in any way; perhaps you had beaten Security Section.  As soon as you opened the door, however, you knew otherwise.

Furniture was turned over, papers were strewn everywhere . . . but there was no blood.  Maybe, just maybe, Danny was out for a jog, walked down to the corner market to pick up a half gallon of milk, went to the florist down the street to pick up flowers for your daughter's return.

And then you walked into the bathroom.

You cautiously knelt down and searched for a pulse.  You searched for a full five minutes before finally conceding defeat.  If only you had been a few minutes faster—but you weren't.  You had failed.

You had failed _her_.

Again.

You heard the accounts of how she stormed into SD-6, how she confronted Sloane.  You witnessed her quiet despair at the funeral home.  You watched from your car as Francie tried her best to comfort her at the cemetery.  You knew you should have been there, offering a shoulder to cry on, but you instinctively knew that your presence would do more harm than good.  Maybe if things had turned out differently, if you really did just export airplane parts, the two of you would be comfortable with something as basic as a hug.  But then, things hadn't been that simple and safe with the two of you in years.  Not since the car accident.

You kept your eye on her, as you always did, over the following three months, knowing Sloane would be anxious for her to return to work.  You overheard Dixon's conversation with Sloane one afternoon—_"I don't know if she ever plans on coming back"_—and immediately began to worry even more.  It was just a matter of time before Sloane called Security Section to handle the matter.

You always knew that Sloane held a special place for Sydney, whether you liked it or not.  This time, you were hoping to use his affection to her advantage, to buy her enough time so that you could have an escape plan.  You were sitting in your office at Jennings Aerospace, waiting for a messenger to deliver Sydney's new papers, when the phone rang.

_"Jack?  Sloane's ordered a hit on __Sydney__."_

You heard the click of the receiver as Ben hung up his phone; the call had to be as short as possible to reduce the chance of it being traced.  Your mind refused to focus on what you had just heard.  Sloane . . . the _bastard_, the one who suggested the name for your only child, had just set in motion a plan to kill her.  You blinked, your eyes slowly coming back into focus.  You had just wasted two minutes.  One hundred twenty precious seconds that could have been used saving Sydney . . . 

You were out of your chair and through the door seconds later.  "I'll be back in an hour," you said in a level tone to your secretary as you rushed through the reception area.  

You reached for your seat belt and dialed a familiar number on your CIA cell phone.  "Where is she?" you barked as you put the key in the ignition and took off.  "Are her papers ready?"

Ben paused for a moment, probably annoyed at you for interrupting him, and began to answer your second question.

"Not for another few hours."

"Hours?  Unacceptable.  She needs to be pulled now."

"I know that, Jack.  How about this.  I can have an agent waiting to escort her to LAX.  We can have her out of the area by ten o'clock at the latest."

"I want agent protection on the flight as well," you intoned as you rushed to your destination.

"Done."  You heard a rustle of papers and sensed that Ben had covered the phone with his hand as he ordered his assistant to make the arrangements.  "We're booking the tickets right now, Jack.  How's her French?"

"Fair," you admitted begrudgingly.  Her Spanish was better.

"No problem.  One of the agents is practically native.  She'll be fine," Ben quickly smoothed things over.

"And the car _will_ be waiting when I get there?"

"Yes.  The flight leaves for Orly at 9:55."  He quickly outlined a few more details.  "Where are you now?"

"Five more minutes," you muttered, driving as fast you dared down the highway.

"Jack?  Make it in three."  The phone clicked and you tossed it aside, pushing your foot down on the accelerator.  Several days later you learned that Ben had just received word that gunshots had been heard inside the garage.  Every second counted.

You sped up to ninety as you weaved through traffic, finally seeing the entrance to the parking garage come into sight.  You could only hope you still had a living, breathing daughter to rescue.

You raced through the garage, going as fast you dared, whipping around corners as you frantically searched for her.  And suddenly you saw her, a flash of red, and slammed on your brakes.  She was pointing a gun towards your head; a body was slumped on the ground next to her.  You were certain bruises were already beginning to form and that her mind was already racing ahead to the next action she should take.

Sometimes, she was so much like you and Irina it scared you.

"Get in!"  you ordered.

She stared at you, the shock and confusion evident on her face.  She never did learn to school her features while under duress.  "Daddy?"

You heard more cars coming and knew you had to act fast.  You leaned over and grabbed the door latch.  _"Now!"_

You saw her lean down and grab something before rushing into the car.  You saw her shock—or was it terror?—as you brandished your revolver and told her to hang on.  You shifted the car into reverse and began shooting and driving simultaneously.  Many long seconds later you were pulling out of the garage and onto the street.  You looked over at Sydney and without even thinking, ordered her to put her seatbelt on.  She obeyed you without a word, and for an instant you flashed back to earlier, simpler days when you made a game out of buckling her seat belt, when you had a song that the two of you sang as you would strap yourselves in.  You wondered if she even remembered the song.

In a flash you were back to the present, beginning the explanation that you had been dreading for the last seven years.  You explained that you worked for SD-6, that you had never sold an airplane part in your life, that she had to leave immediately to catch her flight.

You pulled into a parking lot and turned to face her.  She stared at you as if she had never seen you before.  In a way, she hadn't.  "Who are you?"

Did she really think you had time for a discussion right now?  "Sydney, get in that car!  They're only waiting two minutes, then they leave.  With or without you."  

She leaned forward and grabbed your face.  You quickly turned your head and began your conversation again, this time steering it towards the topic you dreaded.  You had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but knowing Sydney—and more to the point, knowing how her parents reacted to news—you knew that she would demand the full story.

At the moment, though, you only had time for the highlights version.

"About a decade ago, a pool of agents went freelance," you began.  Her eyes instantly flashed with recognition, then horror as she learned that not only were you working for the Alliance, but she was as well.

You urged her one final time as you watched the headlights in the distance.  "Sydney, this is your last chance.  You have to go."

She remained, unmoving, in your car.  The car, filled with agents that you had worked so hard to assemble on such short notice, quietly drove away, disappearing from sight.

Her parting shot, her last words to you before exiting the car, continues to haunt you to this day.

_"Who are you to come to me and act like a father?  If you want to help me, stay away from me."_

Remembering that now, you wonder if perhaps you should finally follow her advice.

After nineteen months of searching, she apparently doesn't want to be found.

_tbc_


	3. Three

You never thought that Sydney's walk in would be one of the best things to happen to you.

After so many years of lies and half-truths, the real truth finally began seeping out.  It began with your admission that you worked for SD-6, continued the day you handed Sydney her very own CIA cell phone, and lasted for almost two years.  Two years that seemed to fly at a breakneck pace, never slowing down for a second.  Unlike the last two years, which have passed by at a heartbreakingly slow rate, as if to compensate for those last two years with her, to give you extra minutes and hours to agonize over every word, every look, every unspoken thought.

Your final two years with your daughter were often painful as you delved beneath the surface for the first time, actually attempted a father/daughter relationship.  You hadn't argued this much since her teen years, you cynically pointed out to yourself, even as something inside you reminded you that for the first time in her adult life you were actually speaking on a regular basis.  Sadly, that was progress for the two of you.

You spent many a night thinking about her, worrying about her, covering her tracks, sometimes even following her.  You watched her from your car as she sat at an outdoor restaurant a few short weeks after she learned the truth about you.  You wanted to meet with her, you truly did.  But something stopped you.  Fear?  Perhaps.  Fear that this new attempt at a relationship would fail, fear that she would never look at you adoringly again, fear that she would never see you as anything but the father who abandoned her.

Fear that she would ask you questions about her mother, ask for details that a six-year-old would not remember.  Details a twenty-six year old woman would beg for.

So instead you twisted the knife just a bit deeper and called her cell phone.  You watched her from your vantage point as she, not twenty feet from where you were parked, picked up her phone and listened to you cancel on her.  Again.  

You pulled away quickly as you saw her appear at the restaurant's entrance and slowly head to her car—but not before you saw her swipe the back of her left hand across her face, then use her index finger to carefully wipe beneath her eyes.  You immediately recognized the gesture, one you learned first as Laura's husband, then in later years as Sydney's father.

She was trying to stop her mascara from running.

And you had caused it to run.

Yet even after that failed attempt at sharing a meal, she didn't give up.  She always was persistent, you admit ruefully to yourself as you gaze at her photograph on your mantle.  A few short weeks later, she tried again, this time choosing a holiday to invite you over.  A part of you wanted to accept, but a greater part held you back.  It would be awkward spending Thanksgiving with her friends, especially Francie, who had never hesitated to show her dislike of you.  So instead you dropped by late that evening, holding her neighbor's newspaper in your hand, and told her that you had been cleared by your government, that you weren't KGB.

You just failed to mention that her mother was not what she had seemed.

But then, Sydney learned that soon enough.  You knew when you stepped into the conference room that day, still bruised and bandaged from your meeting in Cuba, that she would be devastated.  The change in her eyes was immediate as twenty years of keeping secrets finally crashed down.  Now, there were no more barriers between you about your twisted excuse of a family.  Sydney knew the truth, Lau—Irina was dead, and now you and your daughter could finally move on.

Which is why a phone call made from a pay phone a few months later led to such a shocking revelation for the two of you.

You had already extracted Sydney from FBI custody with the help of her handler and his friend.  All Vaughn had to do was keep her safe long enough so she could escape to the air field.  So naturally you instead found yourself watching the television in the window of an electronics store that you passed as you were returning to Credit Dauphine.  Even though the car was indistinct on the screen, even though you weren't certain which car Sydney had been given, you knew it was her.  A silent scream escaped your lips as you saw the car plummet into the ocean, heard the newscasters say minutes later that a body had not been found.

You don't think you started breathing again until you heard her voice on the other end of the line a few hours later.

You drove as quickly as you dared, losing both SD-6 and CIA tails along the way.  Eventually you pulled to a stop and jumped out of the car, rushing to her side, making sure she was all right.  You listened as she voiced the one thought that you had long ago dismissed as impossible.

_"Dad, Mom's alive.  I know it."_

You watch the brightly colored horses go round and round as her voice, her tiny image, echo in your mind.

You wish that someone could be certain that she is alive too.

You're not so sure anymore.

_tbc_


	4. Four

You never realized just how brilliant your daughter was until it was too late.

You could recite the grades on her report cards from memory, of course.  You knew she was valedictorian of her high school class, read in a discarded commencement program that she graduated with a perfect 4.0 in her undergraduate studies.  You remember thinking that day that Laura would have been so proud of her.

Laura was always proud of your daughter, always bragging about her achievements.  You warned her that Arvin and Emily most likely did not care that Sydney could recite the alphabet both forwards and backwards, that she could count all by herself to 100.  _"But Jack, she's only three and a half," she had protested as she wrapped her arms around you.  _"Face it.  ___Sydney_'s brilliant."__

You can still recall the knowing look Laura shot you several months later after you returned home from a particularly difficult mission in Turkey.  "Sydney, go get the picture you made from the refrigerator," she had instructed your daughter as she rushed over to inspect you for injuries.

"Another picture for the refrigerator collection?" you teased.

She swatted your shoulder.  "She's outdone herself this time, Jack.  Honestly, we may need to look into having her skip a grade."

You rolled your eyes.  "Laur, could we at least wait until she starts kindergarten before we talk about this again?"

"Fine.  Just don't believe me then.  But one of these days, Jack, she's going to surprise you."  She fell silent as Sydney bounded into the room, her pigtails bouncing.

"Here it is, Daddy!" she had enthused as you scooped her up in your arms.

You had carefully examined the pale pink sheet of construction paper, noticing the details much as Laura probably had.  "And what does it say, Syd?"

She looked at you carefully before turning to Laura.  "I thought he could read, Mommy," she whispered.  Your wife choked.

"He just wants you to read it _to him," she whispered back._

"Oh."  She wiggled in your arms, and you shifted so that she could hold onto you with one hand and point to her masterpiece with the other.  "It says _Dady__ + Momy + Sydney = Famle.  See?  And there's you, and there's Mommy, and there's me," she finished triumphantly._

"That's a beautiful drawing," you told her sincerely.  "Tell me, what are we doing in the picture, Syd?"

"We're at the horsies," she giggled.  "Going round and round and round."

You had looked behind Sydney to see Laura grinning at you.  She nodded her head imperceptibly at your unspoken question.

Minutes later, as Sydney rushed one last time to go to the bathroom before you went to the carousel, Laura looked at you triumphantly.  "She's writing already.  Can you believe it?"

"The only word she spelled correctly was her name," you pointed out.  "And 'family?'  She butchered the spelling on that one."

"Her phonemic awareness is excellent, Jack," Laura replied, the teacher in her becoming evident.  "And did you notice what colors she used?"  She gestured to the page.  "One color crayon for consonants and another for vowels."

"She did nothing of the sort.  She—" you paused and re-examined the paper.  "Oh God, she did.  How on earth does she even know the difference between the two?"  You glanced at your wife.  "Never mind.  I can see what you two have been doing while I was gone."

Impulsively Laura had stuck her tongue out at you.  "Oh, come on.  If nothing else, find the humor in this.  She's writing in codes already.  Shouldn't you be proud of her for that?" she had teased.  "Your half of her genes is paying off."

Years later you found the picture buried in a stack of Sydney's art work and school papers.  You recalled what she had said and groaned.  It was really no surprise that Sydney was a double agent inside one of the most insidious organizations of the last century.  Between your private Project Christmas sessions and God only knows what Laura did, she never stood a chance at being an ordinary English teacher.  

Of course, this didn't stop you from hating Sloane with every fiber of your being for recruiting her.

Even as your shock and fury were running rampant and you were doing your best to not murder a man you used to consider one of your closest friends, a part of you noted that her superiors always ranked her as excellent and outstanding.  You read over her commendations—a stunning number to have been acquired in such a short span of time—and threatened to burst with fatherly pride.  She might not have been working for the right side, but dammit, she was doing a good job.

Someday she might have even been as good as you.

As you carefully, cautiously, formed an alliance in that final chapter of her life, you found yourself working with her on more than one occasion.  After the first time, where she foolishly slipped out of Security Section's radar and flew to Cuba, you were ready to hand her over to the head of the detail.  Or maybe just lock her in a cell with a book of Morse code.

But then just days later you were thrown into the most absurd of situations—it was up to the two of you, two _genuine CIA agents, to save SD-6 from McKenas Cole.  This involved more than rapidly blinking eyes and a few well-timed kicks and punches.  This required the two of you, working together, almost as if you were . . . partners._

You were forced out of necessity to form an unlikely partnership over the coming months.  You were still the commanding father and senior officer, often coming to your daughter's rescue.  But sometimes—sometimes she had to save you.

You told her that day to take the surface streets, knowing the implications that innocuous sentence would have.  You hoped that she would allow herself to be put into CIA protection, let the others take down SD-6 and the Alliance, and not get involved out of some sense of duty.

You really should have known better.

After all, hadn't she rushed to your rescue just days earlier as you escaped the movie theatre?  She tore through the streets of L.A., reminding you of your own erratic driving, as she tried to show you in the best way she knew that she loved you.

Looking back, you can't remember the last time either of you actually said the words.  But your actions, the way you both rushed to each other's aid, always spoke louder than any words or physical touch ever could.

You still wish she had stayed away when SD-6 was taken down though.

Yes, she saved you from Geiger, and yes, she came away from the situation unscathed.  But the tightening in your chest that you felt when she opened the door of that interrogation room had nothing to do with the electrodes attached to your body.  It was a familiar feeling of fear, one that most fathers probably feel for their daughters.  A fear that that little girl who was all grown up would be hurt, whether by words or weapons.  Because no matter how old she was, how strong she became, how smart she was, she was still your little girl.

And you miss her.

You miss her, the CIA agent.  The seemingly superhero woman who could plan successful missions—even if you didn't always approve of them—to the far corners of the globe.  The woman who could speak multiple languages and morph into dozens of aliases.  The woman who could fight and defend herself and get out of more trouble than most people even knew existed.

But more than that, you miss the toddler who would run to greet you.  The four year old who loved to ride the carousel.  The nine year old bookworm.  The thirteen year old who used far too much makeup.  The sixteen year old with car keys in her hand.  The twenty-eight year old woman who cried in your arms.

You miss _her_.

_tbc_


	5. Five

_There is a spoiler for 3.01, "The Two," in this part._

_Thanks for reading!_

_~Jennifer_

You were never supposed to last this long in the business.

Most field agents don't live to see retirement age, especially those from your generation.  Most of the men you trained with at the Farm left years ago.  Some grew older and resigned their positions for a desk job so they could live to see grandchildren someday.  Others never got the chance, dying in some remote corner of the world, leaving a mourning family and a shining star in their place.

You were told the risks, of course, as you signed your life away in the first of many nondisclosure agreements.  Death was a distinct possibility, they admitted, but you would die a patriot, a noble hero dying for the cause of man and country.

Sometimes when you were out on a mission you imagined what your funeral might be like.  You knew it was morbid, but you couldn't help but imagine all the different possible scenarios—who would be in attendance, how they would be handling their loss.  Would it matter that you had died?  Would they really feel a void where your presence had once been?

On a mission in East Germany you concentrated on your wife and daughter's faces, finding that this helped you ignore the searing pain in your arm and leg and the cold ground beneath you.  Years later you recalled the last time you had seen your daughter, sullen-faced because you wouldn't let her attend a rock concert on a school night, to help distract you from the blistering heat and mosquitoes that plagued you while you waited for extraction.

Sydney was always forefront in your mind, even during those years when she seemed to be anything but.  She was your first and last thought, and many in between, as you worried that she wasn't eating enough vegetables.  Contemplated her future.  Reminded her to floss.  Looked over an old report card.  Handed her the keys to her car.  Worried about her prom date.  Watched a video feed of her graduation.  Listened to a young medical student ask for her hand in marriage.

Read her CIA statement.

It really was Tolstoy long.

Being Sydney's father was the most challenging, petrifying, exhilarating experience of your life.  The rush when she took her first steps, said her first words, rode her bicycle without the training wheels—it surpassed anything you had ever felt before.  It was better than being on any mission.

It's unfortunate that time and circumstance led you to forget that fact for so many years.

Your last few years as a parent were fraught with mistakes, you hasten to confess.  Glaring errors that most parents would never commit.  A building laced with C-4 comes to mind as you inwardly wince.

But there was progress, a small part of you quickly points out as you park your car and slowly open the door.  Working together, on the same side, on numerous missions—successful missions, you proudly remember.  Having conversations that lasted longer than two minutes—an accomplishment.  You allowed yourselves to be vulnerable to each other—she more than you, you confess—as the results of a car crash so many years ago, long the reason of your separation, became the impetus of your reunion.  The woman who had separated you, kept you from truly looking at your daughter for so many years, became the reason you got your daughter back, if only for a short period of time.

You walk through the lightly falling rain to be by your daughter's side once more.  You read the inscription in the granite, trace the small image of an angel that is etched in stone.  You notice matching bouquets of flowers on the ground in front of her resting place and that of her nearest neighbor to the left.  Tippin, you decide.  Identical bouquets for the two women who held special places in his heart.

You kneel on the grass, noticing that the hump in the ground has virtually disappeared.  Within a week or two the land will be as flat as it ever was, no longer displaying the newness of this untimely loss.

No, not loss.  Loss makes you think that there is a chance, no matter how infinitesimal, that Sydney will be found.

But she won't be found.  After too many months of searching, following impossible leads, collaborating with both the CIA and your wife, you know the time has finally come.

Sydney won't be coming back.  She won't be found.  As valiantly as you and Irina both tried, you weren't able to save her this time.

You watch the sun go down, and then rise again, as you contemplate this cold, hard truth.

She wasn't supposed to stay in this business.  She was supposed to turn in her resignation, ignore Kendall's threats, immerse herself in teaching kids who thought English was boring.  She was supposed to wear a long, white dress and a veil as she vowed to love, honor, and cherish one man for the rest of her life.  She was supposed to fill a house with precocious children who would have her smile, or her dimples, or her dark hair, who would run and jump and play and never, ever believe the stories when they were older that they were a part of a family of spies.

Instead her name is engraved on a shining star on a wall at Langley, yet another star representing someone you worked with, admired.  And in this case, loved.

This is your punishment, you decide, for too many years of breaking the rules, for loving the wrong woman, for betraying your daughter.

This is your punishment, you decide, as you realize the game is up, as you allow the cold handcuffs to be harshly placed around your wrists, as you trudge to the waiting armored vehicle.

You are not allowed to die.  You somehow survive every mishap, every attempt on your life, every rogue agent who comes your way.  You will outlast everyone and everything.

This is your purgatory.

~~~fin~~~


End file.
